I glanced at Matt. He looked only slightly freaked-out. At least he was getting used to my random conversations with invisible people. Well, invisible to him, anyway.
“Annette found David Blaine. He’s at The Juggler’s Inn in Boulder. Room two-oh-three.”
Matt blinked. “That easy, huh?”
“This time. Believe me, ghosts aren’t always cooperative.”
“Well, as far as I’m concerned, I got the tip from one of my CIs. No one has to know she’s dead.”
“Hah!” Dee pointed at me. “I told you people had CIs.”
A few months ago, when Dee had decided to help me get back my ghost-busting necklace from my ex-boyfriend, she asked if I had any confidential informants. At the time, she seemed to be under the impression that my life was an ongoing episode of Law & Order.
“Cops have CIs, Dee. We have friends who make bad decisions.”
“Whatever. Toma-toe. Tomah-toh.”
Matt stood up. “All right, ladies, I owe you both dinner. Thanks for your help.” He kissed me. “See you tonight, babe.”
I let myself into Jack Withers’ house and shut the door behind me. The old man had given me a key so he wouldn’t have to “nearly kill myself to open the goddamned door” every time I felt like visiting.
You can see why I adored him.
“Jack!” I yelled. I rattled the bag of fast food like I was trying to find a cat by offering treats. Eh. Kinda the same thing with old people.
“In here, damn it,” shouted Jack from the living room. Yep. There he was in a bathrobe sitting in his easy chair watching the Food Network. “What the hell do you want?”
“World peace,” I said as I put the bag onto his lap. “Oh, and a million dollars.”
“Why don’t you ask for the moon while you’re at it?”
“Okay. I want the moon.”
“Smart ass.”
“Says the pot to the kettle.”
Jack grinned. “Marry me, Violetta.”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
“Promises, promises.” He opened the bag and pulled out a double bacon cheeseburger. I know, I know. I’m an enabler. But Jack was in his seventies, so why not give the old man a little carb-and-fat joy?
“What’s new, kid?”
“My sister’s husband is a dickhead.” I plopped down in the other recliner and dumped my purse on the floor.
“I said what’s new,” said Jack around a bite of burger. “That piece of information is well known and documented.”
“Okay. The dead mother of Matt’s cop partner asked me for help.”
“Monetti, right? I thought he didn’t like you.”
“Well, his mother does and wants me to be her telephone from the other side.”
“Awkward.”
“You have no idea. Matt’s barely used to the idea of me talking to dead people. Monetti doesn’t know his mom is wandering around the Las Vegas afterlife.”
Jack used a napkin to wipe off his mouth and hands and balled it up with the empty burger wrapper. He tossed the remnants into the paper bag. I took a sec to throw away the fast food refuse in the kitchen trashcan.
“You’ll have to figure out the Monetti thing,” said Jack when I returned. “That’s just a matter of working up your courage. Have you been doing your ghost exercises?”
“I’ve been doing the raise the shields thing.” Jack, who had his own discourse with the dead, had been teaching me to create and hold psychic shields to act as ghost repellant.
“What about the push-away?”
“Um. Sorta.”
“You mean no. I suppose it’s too much to hope that you’ve been doing the call-back or the stay-put?”
I squirmed. “I tried to practice with Ben, but he was able to ignore my call-backs and wiggle out of my stay-puts.” Jack had shown me how to call spirits forth and keep them in place. I had not gotten the hang of either of those tactics. What can I say? Ghost school was hard.
”What about Laverna?” asked Jack. “She’s still hanging around, right?”
I’d told Jack all about my pain-in-the-ass friend at the casino. I rolled my eyes. “Of course she is. And she just laughs at me. Nobody can boss her around.”
Jack shook his head. “You’re a long way from crossing ghosts over and handling spirit possession. There’s no point showing you other shit if you haven’t mastered the basics.” He pointed a knobby finger at me. “Practice. A lot. Y’hear me?”
“Loud and clear.” I picked at a thread on my shirt. I didn’t like disappointing Jack. I felt like a Lazy McLazyButt for skipping out on homework. Okay, then. Time for a change of subject. “Hey, do you know Greta the Great?”
“Goddamn. That crazy bitch is still alive?”
6
Oh. Wow. I guess I knew where Jack stood on the issue of Greta the Not-So-Great. “Yeah. And she’s telling the police she’s knows all about Blaine Angel’s murder.” Jack’s furry eyebrows rose. Oh, right. I hadn’t told him about the illusionist’s death, so I filled him in about the strange murder. I know I told Matt I wouldn’t share details (um…again) but this was Jack, and he was my version of a priest.
“Your boyfriend called you in to talk to Blaine’s ghost?”
“Except Blaine wasn’t there.” I told him about Annette, the magician’s assistant. And then I said, “Greta the Great seems to have insider knowledge, but she can’t connect to spirits. In the police interview room, she pretended to get a message from the beyond, and there wasn’t a ghost to be seen.”
“She’s fake. Most of ‘em are. These days, no one wants to watch an old fraud perform tired tricks. Greta’s got no flash-bang.” Jack’s expression turned thoughtful. “Seems like she’s got a scheme to get publicity. If she’s providing accurate information to the cops, then she’s got someone on the inside.”
“Matt will be thrilled.”
“Greta’s been at this for a long time. She’s an ace at extortion, so whoever she’s got on the hook, probably isn’t feeding her info out of goodwill.”
“This gets better and better.”
“I’m all about brightening your day,” said Jack.
“Yeah, right, Sister Mary Sunshine.”
Jack laughed. It sounded like a squealing rusty hinge. “Go on, get outta here. Take a nap, or something, will ya? You look like a pile of dog crap.”
I got up and heaved my purse over my shoulder. Then I leaned down and kissed Jack on his wrinkled forehead. “Flattery will get you everywhere, old man.”
“You need higher standards, young lady.”
After visiting with Jack, I was ready to get some shut-eye. I’d officially been awake for more than nineteen hours. Ugh.
“Vie, you gotta see this,” called out Dee. I put my purse on the kitchen counter and entered the living room. My sister was sitting on the couch, her feet propped on the coffee table. She was staring at her laptop screen. I plopped next to her, laid my head on her shoulder, and said, “Lay it on me.”
Dee had You Tube pulled up, and she clicked play on the loaded video. Greta the Great, in her awful garb, stood on a small stage in a room decorated like a 1800s whorehouse. I recognized the interior style of West of the Wild, a small downtown casino a few blocks away from Fremont Street.
Greta had her fingertips pressed against her temples, and she spoke in a deep monotone voice. “Magicians will pay the price for their sins. Blaine Angel was only the first.” She pointed dramatically at the camera and uttered, “David Criss, the spirits say that you are next—unless you repent!”
Her eyes widened and her head dropped.
The link to a donation site scrolled across the bottom of the video, and then an invitation to Greta’s next performance flashed.
Dee shut her laptop. “Something’s fishy.”
“Brilliant observation, Scooby-Doo.”
“I’m Daphne,” she said. “And you’re stupid.”
“Your face is stupid.”
“Thanks. I was feeling nostalgic
for insults from the 1990s.”
We grinned at each other.
“It’s almost four. I gotta pick up Justin,” said Dee. “You want to come with me?”
“I’m pooped. If I don’t get some sleep, I’ll never make it through my shift tonight.”
“We’re going to Cold Stone Creamery afterwards,” she said, her grin turning evil.
“I hate you.”
“Violetta.”
My sister’s voice dragged me out of sleep. Goddamn it.
“Go away.” I rolled onto my back and threw the covers over my head.
“If you get up now, we can make Greta’s next show.”
“No.”
Dee yanked the bedspread and sheets off. “If she reveals something juicy about Blaine Angel, we need to be there.”
I opened my eyes. “She’s a fake. Anything she says isn’t going to be true.”
“You said she has an inside source.”
“Jack said that. Take him.”
“I would, but he’s the one babysitting Justin.”
“You’re a terrible sister,” I said as I sat up.
“Would a terrible sister bring you home Cold Stone Creamery deliciousness?”
I stared at my sister’s smug expression. She knew she had me by the lady balls. “You’re not screwing with me, are you?”
“I would never joke about Mud Pie Mojo.”
Well, fuck. Only an idiot would turn down Mud Pie Mojo. “Bribe accepted.” I crawled off the bed. I stood up and stretched. “What time is it?”
“It’s almost eight o’clock. Her performance is at nine. You’ll have plenty of time to eat Satan’s dessert, watch Greta’s show, and get to work.”
“Huzzah.”
I wanted to sit in the back of the darkened theater, but Dee insisted on a front table. It’s not like we had to fight our way through a crowd. I think there might’ve been nine people total waiting to watch the show.
“This is sad,” I said. “They should at least give out free tickets to get a bigger crowd.”
“This is the free ticket crowd,” said Dee. “You didn’t think I’d pay to see Greta, did you?”
“Yes,” I said.
She sniffed. “Well, I didn’t have to.”
“How long do we have to sit here?”
“It’s only a half-hour show.”
I guess I could handle thirty minutes of Greta. I’d only had four hours of sleep, but that was the life of a cocktail waitress. Anyway. Since my belly was filled with ice cream and waffle cone, I was in a good mood. Plus, I was looking forward to seeing Matt tonight—and by “seeing” I mean sucking face in his police car.
The lights dimmed. A voice à la Vincent Price made the introduction. Then Greta sailed onto the stage and sat at a table draped with a silky black cloth. As she settled into an ornate chair, a huge orb perched on the table began to glow, giving Greta’s face an eerie greenish cast.
The first twenty-five minutes of the show were mediocre mentalist attempts, which got a few pity claps here and there.
“This is painful to watch,” I said to Dee.
“Yeah. I think my last root canal was more fun.”
The orb’s glow turned a brilliant neon purple and Greta’s eyes widened.
“We have a spirit,” she intoned. “Come forth, brave soul. Cross into the mortal realm and enlighten us.”
The table began to shake and the crystal ball began to rapidly change colors. Creepy music played as fog rolled over the stage.
Greta stiffened.
“I am Blaine Angel,” she said in a hollow tone. “I seek vengeance for my death.” The music rose in tempo and the fog thickened. “My killer is … is … the one who knows my secret. Learn my secret, and you’ll find my murderer.”
The music hit a crescendo, and the stage went dark. When the lights flickered on, Greta had disappeared.
But in the orb was the floating head of Blaine Angel. He opened his mouth and screamed.
“I’ve seen Scooby-Doo episodes that were more believable,” I said as we walked to Dee’s car.
“The Haunted Mansion ride at Disneyland is more believable,” said Dee. “Can you believe that bullshit with Blaine’s face screaming inside the crystal ball? So. Wrong.”
“And creepy as fuck,” I said. “The killer is the one who knows Blaine’s secret? Well, no shit. If Greta does have a source at the police department, she’s not getting much information.”
“Maybe she’s keeping the good stuff to herself.” Dee stopped walking and grabbed my arm. “Or she’s letting someone know she has a truth bomb.” Her face lit up with excitement. “Jack told you she like to extort people. What if she does know something?”
“And she’s using her show to get the message out? You really think she’s trying to get the attention of the murderer?”
“It’s a theory. Greed makes people do really stupid things.”
“Well, inviting a killer to pay you a visit is a definitely a stupid idea.” I shook my head. “I think she’s just capitalizing on Blaine’s murder to bolster her show.”
“Well, it’s not working,” said Dee.
“I’m tellin’ you the Pot O’ Gold is hot,” wheedled Laverna. “One max bet on that middle machine, Violetta. Pull the handle—don’t use the loser button. C’mon.”
“No,” I said to the dead lady. I stared and aimed some mental mojo at her. “Go away.”
Laverna lifted a brow. “Honey, you know that doesn’t work.”
“It’s still worth a shot.”
“You’d have better luck with that slot machine.”
“Ugh.” I expertly weaved through gamblers and drunks, delivering drinks to red-eyed tourists. Most gave me tips, but there were always one or two cheapskates. I’d like to say it didn’t bother me, but it did. And that’s why they got watered down drinks. Friendly reminder: Always be nice to your server, especially one wearing high heels. Yep. That was me. Sacrificing my arches for gamblers in the quarter slots.
I’m such a saint.
Around 2 a.m., I got a call from Matt. I took my break and met him in the back parking lot. He was in his detective’s car—a black sedan.
After kissing him, I asked about David Criss.
“I owe your ghost one. We found Criss at the Juggler’s Inn, and he’s in protective custody. He was three sheets to the wind so he wasn’t exactly making any sense. Once he gets sober, I hope he’s more help.”
“Me, too. What about Annette? Were you able to find anything about her?”
“David Criss did have an assistant named Annette Wheeler. She died three years ago during a rehearsal of a knife trick. Criss claimed she moved, and that’s why the blade pierced her brachial artery. She lost too much blood, and died before the paramedics got her to the hospital.”
“That sucks. Are you sure he didn’t do it on purpose?”
“I think it’s suspicious that either one of them could’ve made that kind of mistake. They were both experienced entertainers—and they’d performed that same trick hundreds of times.” Matt shrugged. “There wasn’t any evidence contradicting David’s story. And he had a witness.” He paused. “Blaine Angel.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope.” He pushed a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Enough shop talk.”
I grabbed the front of Matt’s shirt. “Time for more kissing.”
We made out for a while—and he did get to second base. We cooled it, though, because I was getting too old to have sex in the back seat of a car.
Also, Matt had a bunch of crap in the back seat so we couldn’t squeeze in there, anyway.
I eyed the boxes and papers. “What is all that?”
“Case files. About a decade ago, there was a magician named Adam LaFarge who disappeared from the Starlight Casino. The original investigator thought it was homicide, but without a body, the case went cold.”
“Why are you interested in a cold case?”
He shrugged. “It’s a h
unch. Blaine and David mentored under the old man. It just feels connected.”
“Were they suspects in LaFarge’s disappearance?”
“Yeah, but they were Teflon. Nothing stuck. He’s still listed as a missing person.”
“No perp was ever arrested?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Perp?”
I felt my cheeks warm. “I spend a lot of time with Dee watching murder shows.”
He snickered, and I punched his arm. He rubbed his bicep. “Careful there, Ali. I’m a delicate flower.”
It was my turn to snicker. Then I sobered up because it was time to admit I’d told another person about Blaine’s murder. “You remember me telling you about Jack?”
“The old man who can see ghosts, too? Yeah, I remember.”
“Well. Um. He knew Greta the Great back in the day. He says she’s a fake, and if she’s revealing accurate information it’s because she has an inside source.”
He stared at me. “You told him about the murder?”
“He performed in Vegas for more than fifty years. I thought he might have some insight.” I paused. “Dee and I caught Greta’s performance earlier tonight. She said the murderer of Blaine Angel was keeping a secret.” I wiggled my fingers. “The spirits aren’t happy … ooooooooh.”
“No ghosts then?”
I shook my head. “She’s definitely not a bridge to the other side.”
Matt pinched the bridge of his nose and sucked in a steadying breath. “From now on, let me do the detecting, okay?”
I smiled sweetly because I could promise no such thing. I was a naturally curious soul. Plus, have you met my sister? Yeah. We weren’t cut out for staying out of other people’s business. We get that from our mother, who could win an Olympic gold medal for Interfering in the Lives of Others. She’s probably also earn at least a bronze in Destroying Your Children’s Self-esteem.
“So Jack worked as a what?”
“Mentalist.” I squinted at him. “You’re not thinking that Jack is a magician murderer, are you? He’s older than the dinosaurs, and he almost never leaves his house. He couldn’t chop up a carrot much less a human body.”
Getting in the Spirit (Violetta Graves Mysteries) Page 4